


To Make a Soul

by Czarny Kot (Sephaya)



Category: Howards End (1992), Howards End - E. M. Forster
Genre: F/M, honestly though, i love these two, only connect, talk about your niche fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5259515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sephaya/pseuds/Czarny%20Kot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from a marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?"   
> -John Keats

Draping the scarf around her neck, she risked another glance in the mirror. They were to depart soon for the boat train; she could hear Henry's voice below ordering the motor brought around. She needed to make haste.

The wedding had been modest, but Margaret's joy in this new connection was not dampened by the small company. She had been kissed by her new husband very tenderly indeed in the closed car as they returned to the house. The light in his eyes then, she thought, had little to do with the trappings she wore on this most important day, but rather with his delight in her lips and the warm pressure of her hands against his chest. 

She wishes she could make some logical sense of this new marriage of hers. Henry's blustering remonstrances had made some small headway against her own nature, this she knows, although she feels they have had little concrete effect on her general character. Indeed, the licence she grants him in so many issues is given with full knowledge of her own independent state of mind, a truth she acknowledges openly to herself no matter how much Helen might disagree. Though she may not always remonstrate in moments where she might have previously, she considers her right to do so an unalienable one. In time, she too, hopes to make the same headway with him, defeating his bluff defenses with her particular attentions.

Adjusting the scarf with restless hands, Margaret reflected on her desire to bring the less defined edges of his character into sharper relief. She ached for his struggle to breach the tight restriction he, and he alone, had placed upon himself, even though it seemed as yet an unconscious battle. She had often observed his strongly-etched opinions on propriety fighting with what could only be described as a need for her -- her attention, her understanding and, although this was new to her, her touch. These small tendrils of connection, traveling between the high hard walls of his outward character and the softer greener banks of his inner nature, nurtured a warm tenderness within her. For all their intimacies, Helen and Tibby's familial connections had made little headway into this particular corner of her heart. 

These visible signs of dependence by her new husband, have enflamed some glowing ember deep within her breast. She wonders if he acknowledges this small warmth also and hopes these embers, nurtured in her embrace, will grow to feed his soul, too. 

For the moment, though, Margaret can only rely on the power of her presence to move him and she was now confident that it did. Strangely, she finds herself moved by his touches, as well, even the most innocent ones, in ways more than spiritual. She wonders how this fondness for such a physical connection will aid her as she learns things she has so far been acquainted with only obliquely, due to the freedoms she and Helen granted themselves as independent women. 

During the days leading to the wedding she had often found herself eyeing the square set of his shoulders and the expanse of his chest, comparing them with the uncovered forms of laborers in far-off summer fields glimpsed during country hikes. These thoughts had been strangely distracting, and she blushed now to remember how she had responded quite distantly to her maid’s comment on her flushed cheeks.

There was a knock on the door. Startled out of her revery, she turned, "Please, come in!" 

Henry strode through the door already clad in his coat and cap. Approaching her, he took her hands and raised her to her feet.

"Well, Margaret, shall we away? We don't want to rush through the station, do we? Haste only begets mistakes."

She smiled at him and enjoyed the way his breath caught as he looked at her. Suddenly, he leaned forward, catching her lips with his. His grip on her hands tightened as she instinctively moved towards him. 

"A man cannot keep his head when you look at him like that.", he muttered and kissed her again. Changing the angle of his head he caught her upper lip and she felt the gentle brush of his tongue against her mouth. She pressed tighter against him, curious at this new sensation and unsure at how to respond, but willing to try. She let her lips part slightly and thrilled at the small moan that escaped him.

Suddenly, the grasp of his hands loosened and Henry pulled away. She felt an aching empathy for the hoarseness of his voice as he spoke, "We need to leave, my dear." 

Feeling far more roused than even the most scandalous French novels had led her to expect, she let him lead her from the room.


	2. Chapter 2

The train ride was long. Although she knew full well the particulars of a trip to Germany, which really only took slightly over two days, she was never able to resign herself to those endless moments of a journey in which she could simply not engage her mind on any diverting task. In the end, the trip to Dover must be endured, as must the one to Calais and then the one on to Berlin after that. 

Books were glanced through, and discarded as her unsettled mood forbade any concentration. The few needle projects she could normally endure were set aside, as the rattle of the wagon forbade precision. A new novel carelessly thrust into her hand by Helen at their last meeting made her head ache. Dover drew closer every minute, but not soon enough. They would cross the Channel in the morning, so she had the night to look forward to. Conversation with her new husband had slowed as her yawns increased and he had genially advised her to close her eyes for a few moments. She had dozed, contentedly, against his shoulder, but the slam of a door elsewhere in the car had soon roused her. She did not move her head away from its comfortable perch though and watched with sleepy eyes as he browsed a yellow-backed novel. 

Awakening further, she began to sense a restlessness burning within her. She wondered if he could sense the pounding pressure that suddenly seemed to be charging unrestrainedly throughout her limbs. She felt a sudden fevered need to straddle the figure next to her and press herself against him for relief. 

He had given himself to her today, whether he understood that yet or not, and she found she was eager to claim him fully. She wanted to give herself to him in turn and truly grasp what that would entail. Slowly breathing through her mouth, she sought to slow the pounding of her heart and calm the wild instinct that had roused these feelings so deep within her.

Trying to associate this feeling with any earlier one in an effort to comprehend its fervent nature, she could only bring to mind an impromptu bath in a mountain spring with Helen during one of their trips through the Alps. The guide had gone ahead and they had splashed in the spring with abandon, exposing their limbs to the brisk air and enjoying the physical world as it connected with each and every human soul. She wanted to connect in that way with her new husband, and she wanted him to know her more fully, whatever that entailed.

Unable to bear this feeling alone any longer, she unknitted her hands from her lap and slid one over to rest lightly on Henry’s thigh. At his inquisitive “Hmm?” she turned her head upwards to investigate the scent of his cologne along his collar and enjoy the slight drag of his whiskers against her cheek. Continuing her slow movements against his neck she relished the moment when his breath caught and he lost himself to her ministrations. He did not stop her. Why should he? It was the evening boat train, and the shades were drawn on their first class compartment. 

She continued to explore this new territory as Henry pressed into her touch. The journal had fallen, unwanted to the floor. His eyes closed as he finally exhaled with a low murmur and he wound his fingers around hers and pressed her palm firmly onto the plane of his thigh. The hardness of his leg and the press of his hand against hers sparked a peculiar and welcome ache between her thighs. Finally, he turned towards her and, nudging her head back, lowered his head to hers. Her lips parted in anticipation of this renewed kiss and she felt his own lips part in turn. 

“Margaret. Oh, Margaret” The words were whispered against her lips as he kissed her. 

For a moment she wished that there was more substance to his comments, but she knew they would come.

There was no motorcar waiting, nowhere to be for another few hours and she felt it her right to exploit this opportunity to the fullest. All of her senses were aflame, even the smoothness of his silk tie under her fingers excited her. She shifted restlessly, pressing against him, trying to deepen their kisses. In response, Henry slid his free hand upwards to rest his hand on her throat. She thrilled at the feel of his bare hand on her skin.. 

Time passed, she knew not how long.


	3. Chapter 3

Like all the dressing table mirrors in English hotels, this rather warped example left her fretful and uneasy. She leaned forwards to peer closer at her image in the cloudy mirror. Who was this strange creature? 

Her hair was down. It lay heavily across her shoulders and, Margaret thought, provided a fine dark contrast with the sheer lawn of her nightgown. She had decided not to braid it, she wanted to feel Henry’s hands buried in her hair. Tonight, nothing of her would be buttoned up or closed off, she wanted to feel him fully with every part of herself. Tonight she would take his full measure.

He had stayed in the bar to have a brandy, and, she was sure, to give her time to prepare. She was not used to sharing a room with another, particularly not a man. Changing for dinner had been strange -- not awkward, necessarily, but she had been very aware of his brisk movements about the room and subtle looks in the shaving glass as he had washed the dust of the trip from his face.

His smile had warmed her though when she had emerged from behind the scant privacy of the screen after changing for the dinner. Indeed, his genial mood throughout the evening had continued to reassure her. Conversation had been lively over the table, and they had discussed the role of art in enriching the lives of the lower classes. They hadn’t agreed, he had a businessman’s prejudice against expenditures to improve the human condition. But this did not trouble her, she had never required any other’s approval of her opinions, and she thought he had enjoyed the discussion. 

Standing and adjusting the folds of her nightgown, Margaret thought suddenly of the first Mrs Wilcox. Had she worried about her appearance in some anonymous room while a young Henry had dallied over his drink in some long-forgotten nameless hotel? Had they matched wits over dinner? Had she ever had the temerity to tell Henry that his ideas were rubbish? Henry had laughed when she had told him that. Suddenly she missed Mrs Wilcox quite dreadfully. After a moment she glanced in the looking glass again, “Maudlin wrench.” she muttered to herself and shaking off the sudden melancholy, she stood.

Margaret moved to the turned down bed, and sat. She couldn’t tell which side she would be sleeping on, and thought perhaps he would want to discuss it. Touching the bed with nervous hands, she settled for smoothing the wrinkles out of the slightly rumpled sheet. The sudden knock on the door startled her, and her heart pounded as she moved to open it. It was Henry, his white shirt front shining palely in the dim light of the hall sconces. 

“Come in, Henry.”

“Alright, my dear?” 

She moved to sideways and opened the door further to let him into the room. His hand was cool and dry as he touched her wrist briefly and his step was steady as he crossed the room. It seemed that he had stuck to one brandy, indeed, she wondered if he had drunk anything at all. 

She closed the door and and sat back down on the bed as he shrugged himself out of his evening jacket and removed his shoes. She rather thought he knew she was watching, but he did not turn to face her. The watch was laid carefully on the dresser, as was the billfold and cigar case. The waistcoat joined the jacket and was followed by the tie and the collar. He moved to the washbasin with his braces loose about his waist, and his shirt untucked. Bending over the bowl, he washed his face and hands briskly, and reached blindly for the linen towel.

The sight of him -- hair untidy and wrists and neck, so pale and uncovered, caused her breath to hitch suddenly. Suddenly he was someone unknown -- a man bereft of the tokens that spoke of wealth and privilege. This was a creature akin to those field laborers she had spied on so long ago. An primal being whom, she thought fiercely, must have the same desires as all humanity -- love, kindness, and connection. Did he recognize this in himself? She felt sad for a minute to think that he might not.

“Oh, Henry. Come to me, Boy.” Her voice was soft.

He had turned as she spoke, “You look quite fine, my Margaret.” Approaching, he reached out to her and touched her cheek gently with his forefinger. “May I kiss you?”

She smiled up at him, “I’m sorry, should I have asked your permission on the train?”

He laughed, a short and bark, “No...no.” He looked away then, his expression troubled.

She felt sure he thought that he should want to remonstrate her for her boldness but she was in no mood to listen and she felt sure that was not his true desire anyway. To forestall any argument she raised her hands to his waist, and pulled lightly at the loose fabric of his shirt.

“Come kiss me then, dear Henry, and show me what we should be about.”

He allowed himself to be drawn closer. “Ha! You are a bold one, Margaret.”

“I am your wife now, my dear, and I shall be as bold with you as I like.”

Glancing at his face again, she saw conflict, and felt sadder for the recognition. But desire was writ there too, and she hoped it signified a greater yearning for things beyond even this moment of intimacy. 

Tightening her hands on his shirt, she tugged at the fabric, and pulled him forwards until he stood between her legs. The fabric of her nightgown was drawn taut between her spread legs then and she shifted her hips restlessly against the constraint. 

His sudden exhale caught her attention, although his face was shadowed when she looked up at him again. His hand had risen once more and hovered close to her cheek.

“I would hope that you will not think less of me for being eager to learn all the things you have to teach me here, dearest?” 

This was one point that she would not yield, she knew, that whatever her other struggles would be with him, on this point she needed to conquer him utterly. 

“My dear,” his hand touched her cheek gently, “I could not bear to think ill of you in any situation whatsoever.” His fingers stroked downwards, touching the column of her throat then sliding down to the neckline of her nightgown. 

“Your eagerness is...”, indecision crossed his face then and his words died away. 

She braced herself for some further opposition. But a strange resolution seemed to seize him as his hand reached the neck of her nightgown. She leaned forwards into the touch, trapping his hand between them as she rested her head against his stomach. He shuddered slightly.

“Margaret, the light....let me but turn off the light.”

Pulling on his shirt for leverage, she stood. His hands found their way to her waist and held her. His breathing had quickened, but she could feel in the shifting grasp of his hand on her night trail that he was not yielding.

“The light, my dear. You’ll be more comfortable. It’s not suitable.”

This was his condition it seemed, and Margaret resolved to grant him this one concession. 

Closing her eyes to shut out the look in his eyes, she sighed, “Very well. Turn off the light, then.”


End file.
